No More Time For These Trousers
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: In "Going Postal", there is the incidental detail that Tolliver Groat's appalling trousers were so dangerous they had to be safely disposed of. But who provided the bomb disposal squad? Read on...


_**Just another evening in Ankh-Morpork…**_

_**Prologue: (From Terry Pratchett's **_**"Going Postal"**_**)**_

Dr Lawn leafed through the papers on his desk. Then he turned to Moist von Lipwig again.

"It was quite interesting, Mr Lipwig." he said. "It was the first time I've ever had to operate just to remove the patient's clothing." He leafed through Tolliver Groat's file again. "Apparently his trousers were the subject of a controlled detonation after one of his socks exploded. We're not sure why."

**_Now read on. _**

The next morning, Moist was not surprised to receive an invoice for services, forwarded from the Hospital, on expensive black-edged paper.

_For provision of Exothermic Alchemy Materials, expended in a necessary controlled detonation at the Lady Sybil Free Hospital - AM $45-00._

_For the services of two Licenced and Chartered Assassins and four Students - AM$1,500._

_Grand Total:- __**AM$1,545 **_

_This is fully inclusive of 50% Guild Tax_

_Prompt Payment will be appreciated. _

_Mr H.M Winvoe, Guild Treasurer's office. _

Moist sighed. He approved the invoice for payment anyway, making a mental note to suggest to Wimvoe that as the Assassins' Guild _must_ send out a goodly amount of mail each week, could I perhaps pay you in stamps? _Or I could suggest we off-set it as rent for the long-term loan of the Post Office chandelier? _

_**The previous afternoon:-**_

Every school or college in the Multiverse and many military academies must know the game of Flags, or a variation thereof. Played in the hearty open air, it involves dividing a class into two equal teams, who are deployed in terrain of the game umpire's choice, and are each given a flag. The aim of the game is to capture the other side's flag while preserving your own from harm, and it teaches strategy, team-work, self-reliance, and some down-and-dirty close combat skills. At least, _officially_.

This is the Assassins' School version. In this version, two teams are issued a flag and a selection of explosive devices. The aim of the game is to blow up the other team's HQ, and by extension its Flag, whilst thwarting all attempts to have the same done to your own. Played by senior students less than a year away from the Final Run, the game can get desperate. In consequence, it is a popular and much-anticipated part of Johanna Smith-Rhodes' senior classes, in both Exothermic Alchemy, and in Fieldcraft and Advanced Combat Skills.

Today, the venue was a disused limestone quarry to the Hubwards of the city, and adjoining fields known as Johanna's Adventure Playground, or Little Howondaland. Such neighbours as exist are used to loud explosions and occasional screams at all times of day or night.

On this particular afternoon, Guild teachers Johanna Smith-Rhodes and Bill Bradlifrudd were umpiring a game between two senior classes. To be more precise, they weren't really _umpiring_, as the game had few rules. The few rules summed up as:

No inhuming.

No permanent injury to be deliberately inflicted. (Minor incapacitating injury is permissible).

No edged weapons to be drawn.

No blunt weapons to be drawn.

Projectile weapons are restricted to blowpipes only and then with non-lethal darts.

Bill, who was the Boys' PE teacher, enjoyed this game. In fact, cross-country runs, one of the most sadistic tools in the PE teacher's arsenal, took on a new dimension here, as he took good care to vector them through the Playground. Here, the hapless runners didn't just have drizzling rain, goosebumps, mid-calf deep mud, animal droppings, loose branches, rutted paths and sudden drops to contend with. Forgotten explosive or incendiary devices could make a run even more of an unpleasant proposition.**(1)**

Meanwhile, Johanna, who had been to war and seen combat in some difficult places, believed the Game heightened the skills she sought to teach her students on the Black Path. It taught those invaluable and intangible skills of ruthlessness, deceit, low-down cunning and _will to succeed_, that were invaluable to the Assassin. On top of her schooling in Fieldcraft, Advanced Combat Skills, and Exothermic Alchemy, the student who absorbed the informal lesson was well placed to succeed in the (sometimes literally) cut-throat world of Assassination.

She saw her job here as more one of _supervision,_ ensuring the students were not employing so much low-down cunning and trickery that they were sitting it out somewhere else, or playing other Games of their own. She had been deceived in the past by students who, confronted with playing the Game for four hours on a wet weekday, had slipped off back to the nearby city to kill time in a coffee shop, taking care to return in time for the final muster. Being fair-minded, and recognising they had absorbed the lesson to the point where they had almost conned the teacher, she had given them a special merit. And then sent them back the following week to do it all over again.

And putting a group of normally-hormoned sixteen and seventeen year old boys and girls together, in an area where the name of the game was to exploit every opportunity for concealment and for going to ground, in a training area with lots of places to hide - well, she was on the watch-out for _that _sort of thing as well.

So she'd brought the dogs with her, on the grounds that big hunting dogs required lots of exercise. The fact her Howondalandian Lion Dogs had originally been bred to take on lions was not lost on her pupils. They'd easily detect and bring down a student Assassin trying to sneak off the training area altogether, or roost out anyone who'd found a nice cosy hiding place for two and didn't intend to leave it, thank you very much.

The two dogs had also been part of her life since puppyhood and knew, because she'd taught them, to stay away from the smell of new or freshly detonated explosives. But they knew the general smell of Student, which to them meant pats, petting, treats and admiration. Johanna knew that, unprovoked, the worst they would do to a student they ran down was to seek to lick them to death and drown them in gallons of doggy spittle. But the students didn't need to know this. (She also knew no student would _dare_ employ the lethal techniques they were taught for coping with guard-dogs – not with their teacher's pets).

She, Bill, and the third member of the teaching party, stood on the edge of the quarry and watched, listening to the occasional scream or bang as it came up to them.

Bill, in his black tracksuit of office, the one with the purple trim, his black-enamelled whistle hanging by the purple silk cord denoting his teaching status, smiled contentedly. He believed in healthy exercise in the open air.

The third member of the party also wore predominantly black clothing. Matron Igorina had teaching status in her speciality, but most of the time served as the School's all-purpose doctor, nurse, and medical specialist. She was here to give practical first-aid if an emergency occurred; and as with any Igor, her ability to sneak up behind somebody, silently and unannounced, was a skill that earned her the respect of even senior Assassins. Many students spent time watching and observing her to try to work out exactly how she did it. None had managed it yet. This made her invaluable on an exercise like this.

The three teachers watched the exercise unfold, occasionally moving position and observing from cover, taking notes as to what they saw.

Then, finally, the explosion, as a carefully measured sub-lethal charge of depleted Agatean Fireclay erupted, taking Red Team's flag and HQ dugout with it.

"Blue Team were mainly female, weren't they?" Bill asked, already knowing the answer. Johanna nodded, contentedly.

"All-round nastier, more cunning, less principled and altogether more lethal than the boys." agreed Igorina, who had already despatched three casualties back to the Guild for treatment.

"Mainly from Scorpion House and Tump House." Bill noted. "So this is what six years of Lady T'Malia or Alice Band does for a girl."

"I think I may have several cathes of ruptured eardrumth to deal with." Igorina said, excusing herself. Johanna and Bill noted how, when there were a few promising injuries to deal with, the clan lisp re-entered her voice. Normally her accent was impeccable, with the tiniest hint of Überwald. But give her the sorts of interesting injuries to look at that Guild training was sure to provide, and enthusiasm filled her voice, bringing the lisp with it.

And so they returned to the Guild at the end of a very satisfying day. Johanna was looking forward to a quiet late evening: bathing, changing clothes, light tea, walking the dogs, and doing necessary marking. And then Lord Downey caught up with her in the courtyard.

"Ah, Miss Smith-Rhodes" he said, with a little diffidence.

"What do you smell in the air?" he asked her. She sniffed. There was the all-pervading background note of the River. It was only going to get worse by midsummer: even in spring, it was still noisome.**(2) **But then she caught it.

"Fire, sir." she said. They'd seen a pall of smoke in the distance, over in the area of Upper Broad Way or Short Street, as they came in through the Least Gate from the training area. The students had speculated what it was, although without great interest: the direction and angle suggested the Alchemists' Guild had exploded again, a fairly commomplace event in the city these days.

"It is publicly known that the new Postmaster has been stirring things up, somewhat? Well, certain vested interests appear to have responded. We are of course observing with interest."

Johanna frowned. This was leading up to something…

"I understand the golems are converging on the area to deal with the fire, which is not our concern. We have, however, received a most urgent request from the Lady Sybil Free hospital. A casualty of the fire was taken to the Hospital and his… condition…. requires urgent attention. We have been asked to help out."

Her eyebrows raised in surprise. "Sir? I would have thought Doctor Lawn did not epprove of inhumation…"

Lord Downey smiled.

"Perhaps I should make myself clear. An expert in exothermic alchemy is required. Mr Mericet, by lucky chance, was on the scene, and has assisted in safely undressing the patient. He has sent a report to me on events. What happens next, he thinks, is beyond his professional competence to direct, and he believes you are the person with the relevant trade skills."

"Forgive me, sir. My mind must be working slowly et the moment. Thet elmost made sense."

Downey smiled a put-upon smile.

"The circumstances are admittedly somewhat _bizarre_." he said. "According to the report I received from Mr Mericet, who was visiting an elderly friend in the hospital's care, the patient in question, an elderly and rather idiosyncratic employee caught up in the Post Office fire, presented with, er, _complications._ Doctor Lawn ordered the Casualty Department evacuated for fire reasons after one of the patient's socks, on removal, started to spontaneously combust. Then it exploded, taking out the examination cubicle and several windows.

"Mr Mericet was asked to give professional advice in his capacity as Inimical Alchemy teacher, and he ascertained that this patient had been, er, _self-medicating_ for several decades with salves and preparations that, in conjunction with a regrettably relaxed attitude to personal hygiene and his being a lifelong stranger to laundries, had permeated his clothing to a dangerous degree.

"Mr Mericet then supervised hospital employees in filling sandbags - the Hospital had no lack of these, stored against any need to defend against a flood. He then volunteered, alongside Doctor Lawn and the Matron, to undertake the hazardous and dangerous job of stripping the rest of the patient's clothing. He believes an explosives expert is necessary to safely dispose of the clothing, so that the work of the Hospital may continue undisturbed by danger of a major explosion. We have made this a formal Guild contract, under the heading of Security Consultancy, and it's worth seven hundred and fifty dollars, after Guild tax?"

Johanna sighed.

"I'll do it." She said, resignedly. "I wish to take several senior students to essist. We cen make it a grading exercise for them."

"Thank you, Johanna." Downey said, heartfelt.

She smiled, and went off to assemble the students and equipment she would need.

* * *

The coach-park at the Lady Sybil had been largely cleared of vehicles, and Watchmen were on duty sealing off the area. Sergeant Angua nodded at Johanna as she led her team in, she having double-marched them on the short run from the Guild, possibly twenty minutes' walk away, but eight at a controlled run.

"Nasty business at the Post Office." Angua remarked. "I'm just waiting for a relief here, then Mr Vimes wants me up there to sniff around, once the Golems have made safe."

"Arson?" Johanna enquired. Like many other people, she had been following the battle between the Post Office and the Grand Trunk with interest. The Guild sent many encoded clacks messages every day; the frequent inconveniencing breakdowns were a concern. The Guild prided itself on being well-informed. Senior Assassins certainly had their own opinions about Reacher Gilt, and privately, certain _suggestions_ had been made to the Patrician. (Vetinari had in fact chosen to retain several Assassins to go out and be seen watching exciteable bankers with something to hide, ike Crispin Horsefry, to see which way they leapt once the heat was turned up.) It was noticeable that Lord Downey, Lady T'Malia and other very senior Assassins had all been diplomatically evading invitations to Gilt parties for some time now.

Angua nodded.

"Mr von Lipwig has been very clever. But it could be that Mr Gilt has, up until now, been cleverer still. Perhaps he realised the time for clever is over, and the Post Office is such a potential threat to him that blunter methods needed to be employed. But then, the place is stuffed _full_ of undelivered mail and dried pigeon shit. It only needed a spark. Cheery's going to be doing her best, but what can we actually _prove_?"

Angua and Johanna were old associates, and had worked together before. They could absolutely trust each other in a hard fight, as the episode with the were-leopards had proven.**(3)**

"Do your best!" Johanna said. She recognised the long spare figure of Mr Mericet, black-clad. _Great Gods, what is he wearing?_

She led her party over. The other feature, she noticed, was a tower of sandbags, stacked at least two thick and rising to about six feet high.

Mericet nodded at her.

"Excuse my strange appearance." he said. "Doctor Lawn recalled that the main hospital building was once owned by the Ramkin family. It was at one point used as bachelor officers' quarters for single subalterns and captains in the Ramkin family regiments. Happily, there was still an ample stock of armour and steel helmets in one of the cellars, which had been used as an armoury".

"End ermour wes necessary?" she asked. Mericet was wearing vambraces on his arms, mail-backed gloves, a front-and-back breastplate, and a tall cavalry officer's helmet with cheek protectors. Doctor Lawn and the Matron were, she noted, similarly dressed.

"Emphatically so, Miss Smith-Rhodes!" Mericet assured her.

"Believe me, miss, it was a _most_ singular operation!" the doctor advised her, drily. The Matron, who looked at that moment more like Ynci, Warrior-Queen of Lancre, than most hospital matrons generally do, grimaced.

They brought Johanna up to speed on Tolliver Groat's admission and the need, very, very carefully, to strip him of his clothing lest anything else exploded. She took it all in, and sighed. This was going to be a tough one.

"If that's everything, I can perhaps return to my patients?" the doctor said. "Matron?"

"It is perheps best if you clear the scene. " she agreed, considering. She, Mericet, and the students, hand-picked from her Exothermic Alchemy course, watched them go.

"So his clothing is in the sendbegged _sangar_ over there?" Johanna inquired. "The bunker, thet is."

"We took great care to put it there…" Mericet began. Then there was a commotion. A pair of trousers – they had two legs, they must have started out as trousers – were climbing out of the bunker, all of their own. Her flesh crept, but her pistol crossbows were faster. Taking their cue from her, the students followed on with bolts of their own. Riddled with at least five bolts, the trousers convulsed, jerked, and fell back into the sangar. Johanna felt as if she had just inhumed a person. She also noted one bolt had gone hopelessly wide and had hit a parked ambulance in the door, about twenty yards away. She back-reckoned trajectories, and made a deduction.

"_Mr Bottulph-Price!" You will see me afterwards!"_ she barked.

"In fect." she added. "You currently believe you have Seturdey efternoon free? Think egain. Miss Band is leading a remedial class for third year students who have so far failed to achieve the necessary competence with crossbows. I will speak to her. You will be _joining_ thet cless, Mr Bottulph-Price."

_And do not embarrass me again by shooting so badly under my command! _

She organised her students. One wound up and prepared to release the siren, which would signify an explosion was about to take place. One more was sent to ask the Watchmen at the barrier to raise the warning red flags. Then she cautiously went to the sangar and took a very careful sniff of the air. She grimaced, felt vaguely nauseated, and asked her students, one by one, to do likewise.

"Only take in es much es you need so es to be able to identify the smell. There will be one dominant smell among many. Be warned end use nose plugs if you perceive the risk is there!"

She had warned them, but Miss Oakley still went green and threw up. Overconfidence. She shook her head.

"It smelt like Alchemists Number One Powder, miss." said Bottulph-Price, trying to make up for his shooting blunder. She knew when to compliment.

"Good! If only your shooting was es eccurate! Now we need to make a plen. Those things could go off at eny moment. Fortunately, the sendbegs will deflect the blest upwards, but they cennot be left there indefinitely. Now tell me your proposed solutions."

The students at least had worked out the options. Everything pointed to a controlled explosion to destroy the contaminated…trousers… before they did any damage.

"Wetch out for other escapes. There is still one sock in there!" she cautioned. "Keep et least one crossbow levelled."

"Now. Whet sort of explosives? We hev several here."

"Agatean Fireclay, miss?"

"No. Too destructive. It is not celled for here."

"Thermite?"

"A good start. High-temperature, it will burn everything inflammable in its path. It will elso trigger the deadly britches so thet they explode. Now work out how big a charge is required!"

"Er… ten ounces, miss? With a mercury fulminate trigger?"

A _timed_ mercury fulminate trigger, miss Allen. You are forgetting _you_ need time to retreat efter placing the bomb! Now compare the edventeges of thermite to those of a picric ecid incendiary?"

They eventually lobbed in twelve ounces of thermite, a relatively new explosive co-pioneered by the Alchemists' Guild, who had invented it, and the Assassins' Guild, who had worked out how to deploy it _without _blowing their own roof off.

The Assassins got to a safe place forty yards or so from the sandbags, as the mournful wail of the siren caused everyone listening to it, at least in theory, to take cover. The Watch had been briefed as to what to tell people, after all. Although being Ankh-Morpork people, there was a tendency to surge to the Watch barriers to take in the street theatre, or to ask what that sodding siren was doing going off, when we're bedding the kids down for the night, or just to wander over and ask what the big red flags were for, is it some sort of parade?

And then a tongue of red and yellow flame lanced up from the centre of the sandbagged enclosure, which bulged visibly with the blast it was containing, but kept its shape. The explosion echoed, muffled, around the street. Windows rattled, but did not break.

Then it was over, and Tolliver Groat's trousers and remaining sock were history: no time remained for those trousers.

"Thank you, ladies. And gentlemen". Johanna breathed, suddenly seven hundred and fifty dollars better off.

_Although I'd better at least make the offer to split it with Mericet, as he identified the problem and supervised the preparations that made it easier for me, _she thought.

She looked at her assistants, and smiled. _Noblesse oblige. _

"We've all missed dinner at the Guild." she said. "When we return this equipment, whet if I find a restaurant thet cen cater a table for five? Will you join us, Mr Mericet? My expense!"

* * *

**(1) **Bill Bradlifrudd was, after all, an _Assassin_ PE Master. And Matron Igorina was at hand to make good any damage.

**(2) **There is surprisingly little _**in Going Postal**_ to tell you what time of year the events of the book take place – no references to seasons of the year, weather, plants and flowers in season, et c. There is a reference, on the day of "Albert Spangler's" hanging, to dawn occurring much earlier than seven-thirty in the morning – this rules out winter and suggests sometime between very late May and September when dawn occurs between four-thirty and six.

**(3) **See my novella _**Whys and Weres.**_


End file.
